


No One Else

by jillyfae



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Demons, Dragon Age Holiday Cheer, F/M, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-02-27 22:15:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2708651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillyfae/pseuds/jillyfae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where Templar meets Soldier, and duty becomes something more. </p><p>Aveline Du Lac meets Wesley Vallen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No One Else

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place concurrent with Aveline's Short Story [_here_](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Aveline_\(short_story\)), and was written for a _Dragon Age Holiday Cheer_ gift.

His name was Wesley.

She ought to think of him as Ser Vallen, she knew, a bare acquaintance, just introduced in the darkness of this forest.

Stranger.

Templar.

_Wounded._

It took him too long to straighten up to his full height, and it was the gravest folly to let him step forward, closer to the otherworldly light inside the freehold she'd been called to aid, and yet.

The only survivor of his team,  _the runner had said there'd been six,_ and still he stood.

 _No one else dies tonight,_ he swore.

She could not help but follow.

No.

He didn't let her follow. He invited her to stand by his side, and she did.

Maker help them both.

***

The Maker was not there.

If He'd let His gaze drift their way, what was in that freehold would have convinced Him to turn away again.

The runner who'd come to the barracks had just said something had gone wrong.

They were so far beyond  _wrong._

Even the shadows cast by that terrible light were wrong, strange and purple in their depths, not quite still.

She ignored them. They were only a distraction, not the goal, much as the clawed doubts that had crossed her path along the way had only existed to be passed on the way here.

Here was the heart of it all. If such a cruel and shameless being could be called a heart.

It had been human once, clearly.

That was perhaps the worst part. Worse than the pulse beneath the arms and legs, the dirty red color of too much blood and too thin skin, stretched and twisted almost beyond recognition, the growl deep in its chest that escaped as a sound no human throat could withstand, the glint of dark claws where hands ought to have been.

It spoke, but she ignored it, denied the words meaning, as he'd told her.

Even so, she felt their pull, a tug low in her chest, pain and pleasure and promise.

Looking straight on, it was easy to ignore, to realize the pleasure and promise were lies, the only truth left in this house was pain.

Even  _it_  felt it.

There were tears of blood, shed from eyes that still held the faintest glint of human brown, of human terror.

Of human regret.

Perhaps a Templar's job was not as different from a Knight's as she'd always thought.

Mercy was not so very far from justice.

Of course the demon riding it had no interest in mercy.

It had shown none to what had once been its family and its tenants, to the Templars who had come to stop it, not even to the family dogs, a pair of long-legged herders that had once been the freehold's pride and joy, now practically ripped in half.

All dead, and none of them gone easily. ?

She could not let herself care about them.

Not yet.

Not unless she wanted to join them.

Wesley needed a shield if he was going to reach it.

If he was going to stop it.

She was good at being a shield.

It wasn't so different from her usual work, even if she was standing between him and red shadows barely solid enough to see, instead of the bandits who lived in the hills.

They slipped away faster, hit harder, but not a one of the shades could withstand the Templar's will, an almost invisible clear white light that edged his sword, that flashed between their steps every time they paused in their advance.

She could see a tremble growing in his shoulders, exhaustion a shadow beneath his eyes, along the lines of his neck, visible every time she shifted by his side and caught a glimpse of his face.

She ignored it, as he did, and took another step.

Until, at last, the thing was cornered, the shadows dimmed back to simple grey and black around them, its words and growls faded to an angry hiss.

It lunged, and she felt something in her arm crack as she caught it, as she held it there, breath laboring in her chest. The pain was bright behind her eyes, but Wesley's shout behind her was brighter, blinding, and the thing's scream was sharper, as Wesley's sword slid past her and ended it at last.

She didn't remember stepping back, or sitting, but that was how her unit found them, back to back, braced against each other in the one bare stretch of wood in the middle of the room, the only sound left their own ragged breath, and the thick sluggish drip of what she hoped was just blood down the walls and off the remnants of furniture.

She avoided looking too closely at the bodies, or the shadows, but she didn't close her eyes either. What she saw then was worse than reality.

Worse than memory, even, the air thick, bodies outline in blood, the laughter of the demon louder, stronger, echoing through somewhere larger than the front room of the freehold, somewhere larger than she could imagine, going out and coming back, until it sounded as if there were two of them.

Or more.

As if they were there, waiting, forever.

Eternal.

So she kept her eyes open, open 'til they burned, 'til the walls seemed to move, as if the whole world was breathing.

Waiting for a reason to scream.

***

She didn't remember the walk back very well either.

It was dark.

Not as dark as the walk there had been.

Quieter, too. No doubts, no claws, nothing but the voices of her compatriots and the rhythm of a full squad worth of boots hitting the ground, syncopated and muffled by dust and fallen leaves.

Slower, of course.

Hurt more, the field splint and half-dose of a willow potion enough to make sure her arm didn't get worse. Not enough to make anything better.

She wasn't sure anything would ever be better.

She shifted her weight as she walked, trying to ease her arm, and caught the edge of a fleeting glance from the man beside her. From Ser Vallen.

From Wesley.

Couldn't help but look herself, moonlight catching along his nose, tracing his profile, hinting at the barest smile aimed her way before he looked down, watching the path so he could keep moving without making his badly sprained knee worse.

Felt a hint of a smile herself, as she ducked her head to pay attention to to her own footing.

She wasn't sure anything would ever be that bad, either.

_No one else died._

***

She'd asked for a sleeping draught the next day. They usually sent her so far into sleep she couldn't even make it to the Fade, her night only darkness. It was why they tried not to give them out too much. Not as restful as natural sleep, but she'd had enough of Fade whispers for one lifetime.

Or at least for a night.

It didn't work.

It  _almost_  worked.

Almost wasn't good enough.

Almost was never good enough.

She could feel the depth of the night when her dreams finally turned, too dark and quiet for aid.

Not that anyone could aid her.

Not here, where she was so very alone.

It was green.

Not the healthy green of forest or fields or pastures.

Not even the unhealthy but natural green of a scummed pond or choked off river.

An impossible sort of green, like the shadows of the light from  _that house,_  darker and brighter and richer and everywhere.

There were no shadows here, just that same green light, thick and wavering, like she was drowning in it.

She was not afraid of death, but  _dying,_  dying like this, drowning in green and sorrow in her nightmares, no one to fight, no one to protect, her breath too fast and shallow, each gasp sharp and painful until her eyes burned, this was a death more terrible than she could stand.

_Please._

_No._

She closed her eyes, as if that would stop anything, as if what she couldn't see wouldn't hurt her.

As if the darkness of her own memories was any safer than the monsters waiting to eat her.

She could feel the hot tracks of tears escaping, but when she lifted her hand to her face, her cheeks were dry.

Her knees felt weak.

She, who had outlasted every hopeful squire standing beneath the noonday sun after the Trials at the Faire.

_A Du Lac never falters._

But she didn't know what to do.

Not here.

Not alone.

 _A shield is useless without an arm to hold it_  .

Her arms felt weak.

Laughter echoed, thicker than the air, louder than her heartbeat.

"Ser Du Lac!"

A man's voice, low and urgent.

She closed her eyes tighter, curled her fingers into fists, pressed her toes down against the too thin soil beneath her boots.

"Aveline." A whisper, so soft her chest ached, "please."

She opened her eyes, to purple flame and black eyes and a glint of too sharp teeth, and she screamed.

And screamed.

And sat up, a sharp jolt as her broken arm shifted in its sling, fingers squeezing too tightly around someone else's hand, chest heaving with too heavy breaths, the taste of salt on her lips.

Her eyes burned, and a sob caught in her throat, and she couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldnt ...

"Shh," the hand in hers turned, the grip easing, the whisper in the air soothing the echoes of her dream.

A familiar whisper.

She turned her head, caught the shadow of black hair above pale skin, a nose she already knew the shape of, the sound of an uneven sigh.

"Wesl -" She shook her head. "Vallen."

"You may call me Wesley." His hand lifted, the curl of his fingers just barely visible as he paused, and his head tilted as he looked at her, and her breath caught, something warmer than a sob in her throat this time, and his hand dropped again.

She caught it, or perhaps he caught her, both his hands wrapped around her single free one, her body turned until their knees almost bumped together, and she blinked, finally realizing he was perched on a rough stool beside her cot, her bunkmate's cot smooth and empty along the opposite wall.

"What?" Her shoulders tensed, and she leaned forward, to do what she didn't know,  _to push, to scream, to fight, to cry._

His forehead met hers, and she leaned against him, and sighed, and let her eyes close without having done anything at all.

It was different now.

Safe.

Well. Safe enough.

She hoped..

"Templars never hunt alone, if they can help it."

She swallowed, and nodded just enough he'd feel it against his head, and waited.

"The kinds of things we hunt, it makes a storm of sorts, in the Fade. Even if we win, we-" He stopped, and she curled her fingers tight within his grasp."It attracts attention."

She sat up at that, eyes wide in the darkness. "But I'm not."

"Even though we're not." His hands shifted this time, his thumb stroking against her skin 'til she realized she'd stopped breathing, and made herself start again. "Once they see you, even if you're not a mage, some of them can," his head tilted again, as if searching for the right word. "Follow the scent.

"So we travel in groups, not just to fight together, but to guard each others' sleep. After."

"For how long?" She could barely force the words out, could feel herself shiver at the thought of drowning again, and again, until all that was left was that green, those black eyes, and nothing of her, nothing at all.

"Not long." She shuddered, relief cool down her spine, sharp in the back of her eyes. "A day or two. Rarely three."

She could survive three.

She hoped.

"For Templars, anyways."

_Oh._

She remembered the light, the swing of his sword that was so much sharper than hers, concentration that was somehow  _more_  than anything she did when she fought, at least against the thing they had defeated the night before.

"It might be best," he paused, and she felt the tension catch in her hands, up her wrists and back, waiting for worse.

It always got worse _._

"If you could get leave to come back to Denerim with me. To meet the Knight Captain. So she can check that there's nothing, that you're ... just in case."

She felt an odd curl of something twist around her heart. Something bright and warm.

That wasn't worse.

That was ...

Not nice, that was going too far, there were still perhaps  _demons_ , after all.

But hopeful?

She rather thought it was hope.

He cleared his throat, an awkward half a cough, and she realized she hadn't moved, hadn't said anything, and she was abruptly grateful for the darkness to hide her face, as she realized she was smiling.

_Why yes, having the Templar I just met cart me across all of Ferelden in case I'm haunted by demons is an excellent idea, of course it's perfectly reasonable to be delighted at that news._

She nodded, a sharp enough movement to be clearly seen. "I'll ask the Commander in the morning."

He shifted on his stool, all shoulders and a breadth of darkness in the shadows, and she could have sworn his mouth opened, and closed again, and she had a moment to wonder how difficult this was, to dance around Templar secrets, to be alone right when he most needed a partner.

_We guard each others' sleep._

_Oh, I'm an idiot._

"I'm awake, now." She shifted away from him, braced her back against the wall. "You need your rest, if we're to leave tomorrow."

He sighed, relief clear in the weight of the sound. "Thank you, Du Lac."

"Aveline," she corrected him, ignoring the flush of heat to her cheeks. "You saved me with my own name while I was sleeping. No need to be afraid of it now."

"It is not fear," his voice was suddenly dry, and she was too warm. "Thank you, Aveline."

She carefully didn't think about how she felt for just a breath, a heartbeat, about how the truth of her name in his whisper had been enough to wake her to herself, when, despite years of answering to cries for aid as  _Du Lac,_  her family name had failed. "Thank you, Wesley."

***

There was something caught in her throat, too hot and tight and solid to ignore, too sharp to acknowledge, for fear she'd lose what little breath she had left to its edges.

She'd seen too many memorial walls not to recognize this as one, no matter how dim the pre-dawn light, no matter how rough its edges, how haphazardly it had been put together, none of the stone quite matching, the facing made of scrap-wood sanded 'til it could impersonate a solid surface, the names burned on by someone with a surprisingly steady hand with a brand.

Dales End was too high in the mountains for most ranchers; but everyone had to come from somewhere, and most ended up somewhere else.

She was too far away to read them, they were just dark black lines marring the pale shift of browns hinting at the grain of the board.

But she could see how many there were.

See how many were clearly new, darker and sharper against clean fresh wood.

Too many.

It could have been so much worse.

It ought to have been better.

_No one else dies._

"Shall we?"

She turned at the voice, saw Wesley leading two horses in her direction, felt herself smile.

Again.

"We'll have to be careful, with no spare mounts available." He smiled back, small and warm. "But it shouldn't be a difficult trip, this time of year."

It took a moment to remind herself to step forward and join him. A woman was likely to get into trouble, greeted by a smile like that first thing of a morning.

_How many mornings will it take to get to Denerim?_

He stepped over to the memorial wall, horses trailing behind them, and bowed his head. His murmured prayer was too soft for her to hear, so she just watched the movement of his lips, and tried to guess what he was saying. Whether he was thankful, or asking for ease, or a bit of both.

_By Andraste's Grace, may you all be lead safely through the Void. And with Her Help, may we prevent your loved ones from joining you too soon._

Aveline knew it was impossible to save everyone.

But it felt nice to know that they could save some.

He lifted a loosely clasped fist to his mouth, Andraste's Breath lighting the Chantry sun as his fingers spread wide. She breathed in, slow and steady. She hadn't realized how close they stood until his shoulders shifted with a last sigh of breath and he raised his head to look at her, and she could see the shadowed grief in his eyes.

And yet he smiled, pale early sunlight seeming to catch in his eyelashes.

Her heart ached. "Thank you, Wesley."

"For what?"

Her throat was full again, and it was hard to swallow, but it was softer this time. She blinked through the heat in her eyes. "No one else died."

His eyes closed, and opened again, and he was so beautiful she was afraid her heart would forget to beat.

"Thank you, Aveline." His whisper was so soft she could barely hear it, though she was almost close enough to feel his very breath.

"For what?" She didn't quite sound like herself, a trembling breathless voice escaping her instead.

"For fighting beside me." His smile lifted, almost a smirk, and she was too warm, again,  _I may never survive to Denerim._  "I could have asked for no one better."

_No one else need ever be by my side._

She swallowed, and smiled, and nodded, and it was too early for such a thought, but still, it curled up inside her heart, warm and hopeful. "Nor I."

They stepped back out to the trail proper, sharing what she suspected might have been a rather silly pair of smiles. She helped him mount so he wouldn't twist his knee again, and he steadied her horse as she balanced with her good arm, and they turned together, and made their slow and steady way down the path, side by side.


End file.
